Fandor entered the bedroom and laying Susy down attempted to undo her corset.
"Vinegar and some water," he ordered.
The King between his drunkenness and his alarm was quite useless, and the journalist, after applying a mirror to the girl's nostrils and lips, with a gesture of despair exclaimed:
"Good God, she is dead!"
However, being unwilling to risk his own judgment, he started to the door to seek aid.
At this moment a violent knocking began and a voice from the hall cried out:
"What's the matter? Is anyone hurt? I'm the concièrge."
"The concièrge! Then, for Heaven's sake, Madame, get a doctor. Mademoiselle d'Orsel has killed herself, or at least she is very badly injured."
The words were scarcely out of Fandor's mouth when the rapidly disappearing footsteps of the concièrge were heard clattering downstairs. Frederick-Christian, in a dazed condition, stood in the dining-room, mechanically drinking a liqueur.
"Look here, what does this mean?" cried Fandor.